


this undoing of the first end

by deathsweetqueen



Series: Tony Stark Bingo 2019: Round 2 [5]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Captain America - All Media Types, Iron Man (Movies), Marvel, Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Abusive Relationships, Bottom Tony Stark, Bucky and Steve and T'Challa Act Like Dicks, Dubious Consent, Dubious Consent Due To Identity Issues, Explicit Sexual Content, Hurt Tony Stark, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, M/M, Multi, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Protective Bucky Barnes, Protective Steve Rogers, Protective T'Challa (Marvel), Skrull(s), Skrulls are evil and it's not Bucky or Steve or T'Challa or Tony's faults, Tony Stark Has Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder, Tony Stark Needs a Hug, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, Unhealthy Relationships, but it's not them
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-05
Updated: 2019-03-05
Packaged: 2019-11-12 08:13:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,347
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18007151
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/deathsweetqueen/pseuds/deathsweetqueen
Summary: “Sir?”“Yeah, JARVIS?” Tony mumbles, skewering his screwdriver through the gauntlet.“It appears that Captain Rogers, Sergeant Barnes and King T’Challa have returned,” JARVIS informs him.Tony jumps out of his chair. “Well, why didn’t you tell me earlier?”“I told you the moment they arrived!” JARVIS argues.“Not soon enough,” Tony huffs.“I believe it is time to form a union, sir,” JARVIS snipes.“Oh, come on, don’t be such a baby.”“I simply cannot work in these conditions,” JARVIS sighs, exasperated.“Baby,” Tony sings, as the elevator doors close around him.Written for the "Skrulls!" square (A4) for the Tony Stark Bingo 2019.





	this undoing of the first end

**Author's Note:**

> So, yeah, this is was written for the "Skrulls!" square for the TSB.
> 
> Warnings: this depicts a very fucked-up abusive relationship between Tony and the Skrulls pretending to be his lovers, T'Challa, Steve and Bucky. Tony doesn't know they're Skrulls and thinks they're his lovers, so yeah, there's that added factor there too. He does have sex with them, consenting the whole way through except for a few uncomfortable moments, but considering the identity issues, I have tagged this as dubious consent, so be mindful. In addition, Tony's coping mechanisms at the end may be... problematic to some. This is not my personal belief on anything to do with that sort of subject material, and please don't attribute to me. 
> 
> THERE IS A HOPEFUL ENDING, I PROMISE.

“Sir?”

“Yeah, JARVIS?” Tony mumbles, skewering his screwdriver through the gauntlet.

“It appears that Captain Rogers, Sergeant Barnes and King T’Challa have returned,” JARVIS informs him.

Tony jumps out of his chair. “Well, why didn’t you tell me earlier?”

“I told you the moment they arrived!” JARVIS argues.

“Not soon enough,” Tony huffs.

“I believe it is time to form a union, sir,” JARVIS snipes.

“Oh, come on, don’t be such a baby.”

“I simply cannot work in these conditions,” JARVIS sighs, exasperated.

“Baby,” Tony sings, as the elevator doors close around him.

He taps his feet against the ground, waiting impatiently as the elevator rises and rises and rises, finally opening out onto the common floor. He stumbles out and looks around, only to find it completely empty.

“Hello?” he calls out.

There’s no answer.

He frowns and starts padding through the corridors, until he reaches the kitchen, where Steve, Bucky and T’Challa are lingering, having a conversation that dies the moment he walks into the room.

He takes note of the stifling tension in the air and shakes his head.

“I was calling for you. Didn’t you hear?” he asks, curiously.

Steve shrugs. “Yeah, sorry, we were just busy talking.”

Tony’s brow furrows, because that’s odd. “Oh, well.” He jumps onto the counter. “What were you talking about?”

The three exchange a look. “Nothing, really. It doesn’t matter.”

“Oh,” Tony says, lamely, and makes grabby hands for Steve’s cereal. “Give me some, would you?”

Steve immediately scowls like a thunderstorm, and Tony’s stomach fills with lead at the sight, too much like Howard’s constant moody countenance for him to be comfortable and loose.

“God, Tony, I haven’t eaten a proper fucking meal in weeks and now you want my damn cereal?” he snaps.

Tony recoils. “I, uh, I didn’t realise you hadn’t eaten so long. Sorry,” he says, quickly.

Steve slams down the cereal bowl with a clatter. “No, you have it. ‘Cause Tony always has to get what he wants, right?” he taunts.

Tony grits his teeth against the sting. “Look, just because you’re having a bad day doesn’t mean you can take your shitty mood out on me, okay,” he retorts.

“Well, you did reach for his food, Tony,” T’Challa says, disapprovingly, his dark eyes burning holes in Tony in a way that makes him cringe. “It was very impolite.”

Tony’s hackles rise. “I didn’t mean it seriously,” he argues.

Bucky snorts, watching him with needle-sharp eyes that don’t sit well with him. “Yes, you did,” he snipes. “Don’t lie, Tony.”

Tony’s hurt by the accusation, but he hopes it doesn’t show. “I wasn’t-”

Bucky rolls his eyes. “You were reaching. You wanted Steve’s cereal, and you knew you could take advantage of him to get it. Just because you’re smart doesn’t mean the rest of us are idiots, okay, Tony.”

Tony recoils away from them and looks away, hot shame and hurt curling in his belly.

He clears his throat. “Look, I don’t know what happened on your mission-”

Steve sneers. “There you go, again: blaming it on something else when it’s just your shitty behaviour that’s pissed us off.”

Tony scowls. “Well, if I’m offending you _that_ much _,_ I’ll just leave you alone, then.”

The way that Bucky coughs _please_ wounds more than anything, but Tony has enough dignity not to beg for their good moods and sweet words and enough pride to storm off with his head held high.

They don’t stop him; they don’t run after him; they don’t let him know in any way that this is something they can fix, that this isn’t irrevocable between them.

That night, they don’t even come to bed, even if his bed’s been cold for weeks and he’d missed them dearly. He asks JARVIS for their whereabouts, when his pride gives away and the room’s too warm to sleep comfortably (he always hated how it made him think of the desert, but Steve and Bucky slept peacefully, without nightmares, and that was enough for him).

JARVIS tells him that Steve, Bucky and T’Challa have chosen to sleep in different rooms that night.

It hurts.

It hurts a lot, but he buries his face in his pillows, tucks the blankets around him like a heavy, dense cocoon and forces himself to go to sleep.

It’ll all get better in the morning.

* * *

It doesn’t get remotely better in the morning.

When he wakes up, alone and sweating, he’s made miserably aware of what went on yesterday, hating that their return had turned into something so stupid, so silly that they’d slept apart the night before, which hadn’t occurred since that first night they’d slept together, unless one of them or more were on a mission.

He climbs out of the bed, even if his joints ache and his head is wringing, and pads inside the bathroom. He washes his face, even if his skin looks sallower than usual and the dark circles under his eyes are bleaker than ever, because it’s a routine that he feels comfortable with and he should look at least somewhat presentable when he confronts his lovers.

“J, where are they?” he says, and his voice sounds tired, even to him.

“In the kitchen, sir,” JARVIS says, gently, and he hates that; he hates that even JARVIS is treating him with kid gloves, all because he had a little argument with his lovers.

“It’s fine, J,” he retorts, a little too sharp even for his liking.

JARVIS sighs. “If you say so, sir.”

Tony rolls his eyes. “I think I built you with too many opinions,” he complains.

“Would you like me to play a depressing song as background music, sir?” JARVIS asks, dryly.

Tony gives him the finger, just where his cameras will catch it, and makes his way down the stairs until he reaches the common floor. He makes his way over to the kitchen, and Steve and T’Challa are busy cooking something on stove, while Bucky sits quietly at the table, nursing a full mug of coffee.

“Morning,” he says, quietly, lingering in the doorway, hating how he questions whether he’s welcome now.

The three turn in unison, much to Tony’s aborted amusement, and something unreadable flickers on their faces, making Tony want to cringe and look down at his feet for some reason.

For God’s sake, he hasn’t felt so insecure since Howard was alive, and he didn’t even think he was capable of such shame anymore.

“Uh, should I come back later?” he asks, awkwardly.

Steve exchanges a look with the others before shaking his head. “Of course not. Come and join us.”

Tony’s lungs expand, full of air, and he thinks he can breathe easy now, mustering up a shaky smile for his lovers. He steps inside and joins them at the kitchen table, pressing a warm kiss against Bucky’s unbound hair as he rounds the corner. He slides in and gives them a warm grin.

“So, what’s for breakfast?”

* * *

It all feels normal after that single hiccup. There are a few things that Tony’s not pleased by: Steve and Bucky have darker, colder moods, more often than not, nowadays, and they snap at him in a way that they never have before. Of course, they’re quick to apologise and soothe when they see that he’s wounded by their words. It doesn’t do much to dull the hurt, of course, but it’s something. It’s more than most have done for him (Ty would’ve set himself on fire before apologising for anything). T’Challa, on the other hand, is absent more, citing urgent business in Wakanda that needs his attention and jumping down Tony’s throat when he might approach the suggestion that T’Challa needs a break, because apparently, _Tony_ doesn’t understand responsibility, not really and certainly not in the same way that T’Challa does.

But he loves these men, so, he forgives.

They don’t sleep apart anymore, that first night having been enough hell for Tony that he doesn’t care to repeat it (and if that means he has to work twice as hard not to touch nerves with his lovers, well, them’s the breaks and he’s getting something out of it too, after all – it’s not the first time, he’s tiptoed his way in a relationship; it’s nothing new to him). He’s just grateful for the renewed company, and he thinks they are too, if the way they hold him is anything to go by.

The first night they come back to bed with him, they reach for him and Tony’s glad for the physical contact. They strip him, hurriedly, like they can’t wait to have their fill of him, and frankly, he’s glad they’re this hungry for him. Their bodies fall on top of him and for a moment, he forgets how to use his lungs, but he just sighs, pleased, when they kiss him, the warmth rolling out in the pit of his stomach.

He kisses T’Challa hard, arches up to where he can feel his hard cock rubbing up against Tony’s belly. T’Challa doesn’t linger on his mouth though, instead moving down to his neck and biting down, a little rougher than Tony would’ve expected from him, but he doesn’t mind the brief sliver of pain, when T’Challa moves down his body to press hickeys into his tanned thighs. Bucky looms over him, hair hanging around his face. For a moment, Tony imagines the greasepaint around his eyes, imagines the Winter Soldier hovering over him, thumb stroking over his cheekbone, and becomes impossibly harder, a high, grating whine leaving him, when he wraps his hand around his cock.

Steve smacks it away, sharply, and glowers down at him, something looming behind his eyes, sharp as a knife and having Tony in its line of sight. Shame prickles at him and he wonders if they’ve not forgiven him yet, if this is just sex, not love – it wouldn’t be the first time someone’s used him for his body, after all. But the dark look in Steve’s eyes ebbs slowly and it’s quickly replaced with a slack, soft look, the one that Tony holds close to his chest when they’re all away from him, kindling memories of waking up against Steve’s warm, naked, solid body, to a mild, toothy smile, hands crawling up his spine and over the slope of his hip.

There’s a rush of blood to his ears and he keens when fingers prod between his thighs, working steadily inside him. He grabs blindly for Bucky’s wrist, who jerks his own cock, hovering over him and clearly revelling in the sight of Tony grinding back against T’Challa’s thick, dark fingers, disappearing inside his body.

“Shit,” Tony chokes.

“Does that feel good, my love?” T’Challa rumbles, fingers dragging inside him.

Tony nods, weakly, letting his head thump back against the pillow. He looks up with an unclear gaze at his other two lovers that surround him.

“More,” he orders.

Bucky breaks out into a smug, knowing smile, leaning in so that Tony can see the white of his teeth (it’s stupid and silly, he knows, but it makes the hair on the back of his neck prickle, like Bucky’s a threat, but Bucky could never be a threat to him).

“You want more, doll?” he asks, his voice growing soft.

Tony nods, almost pleadingly.

Bucky pumps his cock, thrusting his hips at Tony, who makes a noise, all sweet and needy, and swallows him down. Bucky curses and winds his broad, deft hand into Tony’s thick hair, tugging at the strands until Tony’s nuzzling at the join of his thigh, just shy of his cock.

His tongue traces the vein beneath the head and Bucky rocks his hips, sending his cock deeper into Tony’s throat, until he feels the muscles flex around the head.

“Beautiful little cocksucker,” he grunts.

Tony swallows hard, choking a little, but the words don’t settle easy with him; it’s not even the words, per se, but the way they come from Bucky – they’re a little too stern, too dismissive, not like the way Bucky usually calls him _baby doll_ or even the time when he called him a cockslut and Tony shook, head to foot, as the words rolled through him.

No, these words make him feel like he’s doing the wrong thing; they make him cringe a little, curling in on himself, which T’Challa promptly doesn’t allow, keeping his legs splayed out with all the strength of the Black Panther, fingers driving inside him.

Bucky shushes him, his eyes gentling, and Tony calms down a little, cursing himself for the strong and unfair reaction to Bucky momentarily losing control, and isn’t that what he always wanted, Bucky, safe and comfortable and unworried enough that he could lose control with him?

This is all he’s ever wanted.

Why would he shy away from such a thing?

T’Challa pulls his hand away from Tony’s legs and when he looks down, Tony can see him sliding his fist along the shaft of his cock. He can’t keep the lust off his face when he reaches for the king, flushed and panting and writhing, as he grips the man’s shoulders, his eyes dilated, the look in them obscene and relentless.

Despite the fleeting moments of uncertainty, of the strangeness in the way they touch him, Tony has never wanted anything more than to have all three of them fucking him until the world falls apart around him.

T’Challa’s cock presses between his thighs, and Tony’s eyes open and flutter shut at the sensation, as he laps at the head of Bucky’s cock, who is most insistent that Tony not linger with him.

“You’re always so good for me, my lover,” T’Challa murmurs in his ear, his voice smooth like a slow honey drip. “Aren’t you?”

Tony nods, vehemently, against the sheets below him, slowly dampening with sweat and come. “I am, I am, _I am_ ,” he keens, shamelessly.

T’Challa gives him an unbearably soft look, like he’s made of cotton candy and pillow fluff, and touches him gingerly, as if he were something precious to him. Tony’s heart flutters desperately in his chest, like the pitter-patter of a hummingbird’s wild climb, and he doesn’t think he could love this man, so strong and so fierce and so regal that he is and it’s Tony that he wants, in his bed and in his heart and in his life, any more than he already does.

T’Challa presses inside him with a rough groan, and Tony keens at the pressure, at the stretch, as he’s breached and slowly filled up until he thinks he might burst from the feeling. His mouth goes slack, and Bucky does as he wishes with him, holding his head up while feeds his cock inside Tony’s mouth, unravelled by the heat alone without much skill needed on Tony’s part.

T’Challa curses in his tongue, but rocks forward, until the whole length of him is inside Tony, parting him like a ripe peach. He grunts, as he begins to thrust, keeping him pinned at the hips and the thighs, while Tony rolls his own hips to meet his thrusts. He starts off slow, sweet, even as he whispers filth in Tony’s ears, but it soon turns into something furious and T’Challa fucks him hard and thoroughly, Tony lying there and taking it happily.

“You look so beautiful like this,” T’Challa murmurs in his ear, easing a hand over Tony’s warm side. “You should stay like this forever. Do you like this, my love? My cock inside you until you feel like splitting open, your mouth full of James’ cock, while Steve works your own.”

His voice is somewhat strained, as he thrusts up, and his cock drags relentlessly over Tony’s prostate; he whines, both at the sensation and at T’Challa’s words, who is normally so silent and so gentle when they make love – it’s so odd to hear such filth from his usually severe, sedate lover, but he takes it stride, because he can’t help but be charmed by the lascivious sort of look in the man’s eyes, the way he thrusts like he’s on a mission, the words that shame him so perfectly.

“Shit,” Bucky hisses, when Tony tongues at the slit, lapping at where the head of his cock is all shiny with a pearl of pre-come that Tony groans at. “You like that, huh? You like sucking my cock, don’t you, doll?”

“Uh-huh,” Tony pants and licks a long, lazy stripe up the underside of his cock, tracing the vein beneath the head with the tip of his tongue, before flattening it around the head.

Bucky’s grip on Tony’s hair tightens to the point of pain and Tony winces, just a little, but keeps his mouth shut, in fear of ruining this very special moment between them. Bucky’s use of his mouth soon turns into face-fucking, though, like Tony is just a hole for Bucky’s gratification, and he doesn’t have enough time to fix his hold on Bucky’s cock before his mouth is sloppy and uncoordinated, choking around the relentless weight and pressure fed straight into his mouth.

Steve, clearly finding his slip-up unsuitable, pinches him somewhere on the hip, not so kindly, and his arousal deflates a little, Tony squirming away from the unwelcome touch, glaring at him a little, because the bastard shouldn’t get away with it. Steve taps him on his belly and gives him a stern look, like he’s a teacher and Tony’s the misbehaving student, a fantasy that Tony would happily re-enact if only, in this particular moment, it didn’t make him feel low and unworthy.

“I’m coming,” Bucky grunts and pulls out of Tony’s mouth, working his cock furiously.

He comes with a groan, and streaks of white hit Tony’s neck, shoulders, breastbone, sliding down in filthy lines.

Tony whines at the sensation, how dirty and desperate it makes him feel, and grinds himself down onto T’Challa’s cock even more frenzied. Steve takes Bucky’s place, almost immediately, once the other man slumps down onto the sheets, with his arm thrown over his eyes. Steve gently feeds his cock into Tony’s mouth, the stern, severe look never quite leaving his eyes and the quiet, unrelenting feeling that he’s done something wrong never quite leaving Tony’s heart, damnably soft thing that it is.

His hand on Tony’s hair is soft, though, his broad palm smoothing Tony’s thick strands back, and Tony leans into the touch; it’s almost enough to do away with the unsure little twist in his stomach at everything Steve had done and said before this.

“You’re gonna be good for me, aren’t you, Tony?” he murmurs, slow and smooth.

Tony nods around his cock, making a wet, agreeable noise, and sucks like he’s attempting to suck Steve’s brain out through his dick, fearing that Steve will say something else to cut Tony down to smaller pieces than he already has.

But Steve is gentle, remarkably gentle, like he was before he and Bucky and T’Challa had left on that mission. It almost makes tears sting his eyes, but somehow he finds the strength to bite back the urge and just revels in Steve’s kindness.

Tony slides a fist along Steve’s shaft, while his mouth works his cock, his tongue swiping over the head of his cock. When his tongue laps at the dark vein beneath the head, that’s apparently enough for Steve, who shouts and comes, embarrassingly fast. Tony rubs his thighs, over the soft, blonde hairs that grow there, until Steve comes down from his ugly, visceral orgasm and topples onto the mattress beside Bucky, his smile smug and satisfied, like the cat who caught the canary.

He doesn’t have much time to linger on the sight of them though, because T’Challa doesn’t relent, ramming into him hard and pulling the air right out of his lungs.

“Fuck,” he shouts, gripping at the headboard.

“Did you forget me, lover?” T’Challa murmurs, all leonine grace and smooth tongue. “Were you so entranced by their cocks that you forgot about me, here, between your thighs. Am I so easily disregarded?”

His grip on Tony’s thigh tightens and he pins it back, giving himself more room. He leans down and drags his thumb over Tony’s nipple, in a wilful, possessive gesture, before hitching him into his lap, writhing body and all. Tony moans and brings him down for a deep, filthy kiss, but T’Challa manhandles him like a rag doll, lashing his wrists down against the mattress above his head. Tony wriggles about, draped over his lap, skewered onto the King’s cock, while the man strokes his abdomen lazily, his thighs. Tony’s whole body shudders and goes taut, as T’Challa ruts into him, fucking him hard and stupid, and all Tony can do is breathe and claw (because even when they’re making love, there is a fight and Tony’s always been good at fighting).

T’Challa smooths a thumb over Tony’s flushed cheek.

“You didn’t answer me, my love,” he says, gently, but his words betray the threat. “Am I so easily disregarded?”

“Never,” Tony moans, sputtering when T’Challa’s cock catches his prostate on the next thrust. “Never, I promise!”

T’Challa clucks his tongue and thrusts harder. Tony pinches at one of his nipples and whines, when it all becomes too much for him, seizing around T’Challa’s cock and coming with his name behind his teeth, clenching over and over again with undignified little noises of pleasure.

T’Challa grips at his hips, tight enough to leave a mottled canvas of bruises made up of his fingers, but not tight enough to splinter a bone, and comes like a seventy-car pileup, growling out Tony’s name, all leonine like. Tony can’t stop spasming around his cock, still riding out the waves of pleasure from his shattering orgasm, and he rubs his thighs into the thick, wet mess of T’Challa’s come, as T’Challa puts out of him with an obscene squelch.

T’Challa splays a hand over his warm, flat belly. “How was that, lover?” he murmurs.

Tony nods, wearily, too tired to hold his head up and engage in intelligent conversation, burying his face in the sheets.

T’Challa makes a noise of displeasure. “Well, that’s rude,” he drawls. “After everything we just did for you, you’re just going to fall asleep. How ungrateful.”

Tony flushes, more in humiliation than a blossoming of arousal, and turns his head, his eyes going wide.

“I’m sorry,” he offers.

“Why don’t you make it up to us, lover?” T’Challa cajoles, palming his swelling cock, already streaked with lube and come.

When he tilts his head the other way, Steve and Bucky are on their knees, working their own hard cocks. Tony tests out his muscles; the stretch in his thighs and arms and neck is lingering on the line between pleasant and unpleasant, but not so distracting that he won’t be able to do something for them, even if it’ll take much more than the beautiful sight of his lovers, hard and desperately wanting him, to get him going again.

He stares down at his limp cock, ruefully, and sighs, only a tad wearily because he would never be ungrateful.

He reaches for T’Challa first, breathing a little sigh of air over his cock before licking up the length of him, right up to the head.

His back aches, but he ignores it.

* * *

The second hiccup comes during a mission. Just as always, Doom is being a pain in Tony’s arse, and his Doombots are even worse. As Tony pulls apart one, another takes its place, much like the old adage of their Nazi enemies as well; but, today, Tony is very much not in the mood. Below him, he can see Steve and Bucky and T’Challa and Natasha fighting on the ground with the Doombots, and he knows Clint will be perched somewhere on a nearby building, taking out his own fair share from the air.

He’s hit by one of the Doombots, sent flying right to the ground, and pinned against the asphalt, as it attempts to punch right through him. He gets his hands up, halting the assault, struggling to kick the metal catastrophe off him.

“I’m gonna need a lift,” he hears Clint call out over the comm.

Before Tony can say something, can shout and tell Clint not to do something stupid because he can’t fucking help, not when all of these stupid metal monstrosities are pinning them down and he can’t see anything past their looming, hateful faces.

Clint falls.

Thankfully, he lands on a balcony, but he breaks his collarbone and his wrist and his femur and he’s laid up in bed for a number of weeks.

Steve blames him.

“What the hell were you thinking?” he demands, hotly.

Tony flinches away from the shout, curling in on himself. Somehow, he finds the fire inside him. “I was laid up by the Doombots. How the fuck was I supposed to get to him on time?” he argues, folding his arms over his chest.

Steve scowls like a thunderstorm, glowering down at him. “Don’t make excuses. You knew Clint was on that rooftop. You knew he was going to jump, and you were too slow to catch him. That’s all I need to know.”

“I wasn’t too _slow_ ,” Tony snaps, even if Steve’s words make bile rise in his throat, sour and bitter (has Steve always had such a low opinion of him? what is the point of them if Steve thinks he’s such a fucking waste of space?). “Like I said, I was laid up by the Doombots.”

“Then why didn’t you say anything?” Steve shoots back. “Even if you were busy with the Doombots, that doesn’t excuse you not warning Clint that you wouldn’t be able to catch him.”

“Why is it my responsibility to catch Clint when we have three other people on this team that can fly?” Tony demands, the blood hot in his face, flushed from frustration. “I can’t help but notice you’re not going off at Sam or Rhodey or hell, even Wanda.”

“Don’t think you can just palm off your responsibilities like that!” Steve growls low in his throat. “You have a job, a job we gave you and you agreed to. If you can’t do it, don’t insult us by pretending it was someone else’s fault. And if you can’t do it, what is the point of you? Why are you even here, Tony?”

Tony recoils. “Steve,” he begins, his voice hushed.

Steve leans in, in front of the entire team, and bites out: “Don’t think that just because I fuck you that it means you can get away with failure.” 

The pain flares up hot in his chest and for a moment, he forgets that he has a mouth, a tongue, even his lungs, because he stops breathing – that’s how much Steve’s words hurt, sting, make him feel like shit, and he looks away, before Steve can see how much he’s hurt him, how much he wants to hide away from the world until the shame and distress wane.

His eyelashes are wet, but he grits his teeth.

Stark men are made of iron, after all, and his father does have his uses sometimes, in death, even if Tony considered him nothing more than a weed in life.

“Steve!” Natasha snaps, stepping forward, her dark auburn hair streaked with dirt and oil, her eyes narrowed in indignation. Her voice lowers in warning, thinning with ice and ill temper. “Steve, I think you need to back off. _Now_ ,” she says, sharply.

Steve rounds on her, looking as though he’d very much like to kick someone’s teeth. “Stay out of this!” he barks. “This is between me and _him_ ,” he spits out the last word like it tastes like bile.

White noise roars in Tony’s ears and he thinks it would’ve been kinder if Steve had just knifed him in the ribs.

Steve turns back to him, sinew flexing, and for a moment, Tony’s afraid; Tony’s so afraid this is the day that Steve realises what sort of person he’s tied himself to, and this is where it all ends for him; and there’s a part of him, a small part but a part nonetheless, that thinks this is the day when Steve uses all that violence, all that strength against _him_.

He takes a step back and grits his teeth, but keeps his mouth shut – it’s a struggle, but he manages it.

“You were shit today,” Steve says, coldly, and Tony flinches. “You know that. I know that. Everyone here knows that. I’ve put up with a lot from you. I’ve put up with your shitty attitude and your recklessness and your selfishness and the fact that you absolutely refuse to follow orders from your betters. No more. You’re going to do better.”

Tony thinks he might vomit; that’s how tight the pressure is around his chest, like vices.

“Understood?”

Tony nods, dully.

Something’s wrong.

Something’s very wrong here.

* * *

Tony knocks on the door and waits.

He hears rustling on the inside.

“Bucky?” he calls out and turns the knob, which gives away with a slick little noise.

His heart drops like stone into his stomach when he sees what’s happening in the room.

Bucky has some guy up against the wall, hard-bodied with beach blonde hair, with his hands down his jeans and his shirt unbuttoned. The guy’s mouth is red – _kiss-swollen_ , he thinks, miserably – and his neck is streaked with sweat, while Bucky closes him up against the wall, his brawn bracketing him.

“Bucky,” he says again, this time his voice thin and tentative.

He hasn’t quite processed what’s going on.

Bucky breaks away from his boy toy to glower across at Tony, through thick, dark eyelashes and blue-grey eyes ringed with black.

“What, Tony?” he demands, coldly. “What is it?”

Tony swallows hard, past the knot in his throat that aches. He rubs the back of his neck. “I, uh, I thought it was time for your arm maintenance?” he offers, weakly. “I didn’t know…” he trails off, unsure of how to finish his sentence.

 _I didn’t know we were allowed to fuck other people_ , he thinks, miserably, his chest hurting.

“Yeah, I’ll come down later,” Bucky says, casually, as if he wasn’t just caught dry humping some guy against the wall by one of the men he’s supposedly in a committed relationship with.

“Oh, okay,” Tony murmurs, dragging air through his teeth. “I just…”

Bucky scowls, quickly, like anger had just been hovering on the edge and it was so easily to slip into it, like this, all that awful, twisted rage, is what Tony stirs in him.

“What, Tony?” he asks, his voice threading dangerously. “What do you want? Can’t you see I’m a little busy here?”

 _Yeah, I can see that_. His stomach aches. _Why aren’t you stopping? Why aren’t you… why doesn’t this bother you, me seeing you like this, with someone else? Why doesn’t this hurt you as much as it hurts me?_ he thinks, painfully.

He doesn’t realise he’s still standing there, immobilised by the sight in front of him and his own half-formed thoughts, until Bucky’s barking at him.

“What are you still doing here, Tony?” he demands. “I told you, I’d come down later.”

“Yeah, I heard. I, uh, I just… I thought we weren’t doing that? Sleeping with other people?” Tony stutters, folding his arms over his chest in an attempt to protect himself from further blows. “I thought we were, uh, I thought we were doing the exclusive thing, the monogamy thing? Did I get that wrong?”

Bucky snorts, pulling away from his boy toy with what looks to be great effort (at least that’s what Tony’s sour disposition comes up with). “Come on, Tony, you, of all people, should’ve guessed that monogamy’s a bunch of shit anyway. I mean, how many people have you fucked around on, playboy?” he taunts.

 _None,_ Tony wants to shout. _None. I don’t fucking cheat, you miserable piece of shit._

But all of his bravado fails him, and he just backs away, hurrying away from the room. He doesn’t know how he makes it, but he somehow stumbles his way to the common room, where Steve and T’Challa are seated on the couches, talking quietly amongst themselves at an intonation that Tony can’t quite hear.

They fall abruptly silent when they see him enter, though, and that unsettles him.

T’Challa clearly sees something in his eyes because he frowns. “Tony, is something wrong?” he asks, worriedly (if Tony can believe it; nowadays, he doesn’t believe much).

Tony swallows hard. “Yeah, uh, I just saw Bucky and…” he trails off, unsure of how to articulate the words properly.

Steve’s eyes dawn with realisation and Tony shakes, head to foot, hoping for one of his blistering hugs that always fill him with a strange rush.

But he doesn’t.

He laughs.

God, Tony is always so stupid.

“I see you met Bucky’s one-night wonder,” Steve leers.

Tony rubs his aching sternum. “So, you knew?” he asks, his mouth a thin, tense line.

“Oh, yeah,” Steve says, casually, leaning back against the back of the sofa. “He and I went down to the bar last night. It didn’t take us long to find some eager little pricks to suck us off in the bathroom. I left mine there, but Bucky wanted a bigger mouthful, so he brought his home. I didn’t think he was _still_ there, though.” He shakes his head in contempt. “He’s always been a soft touch with the people he fucks though. Never quite learnt how to throw them out the morning after.”

The impact of his words knocks the air right out of his lungs, the sound of his heartbeat in his ears.

But somehow, from somehow, he musters the courage to talk.

“So, this is, uh, this is a frequent occurrence from you guys, then?” he asks, past the pressure around his ribs, his lungs, his heart, like vices. “All of you?”

T’Challa wrinkles his nose. “Not me. If I were searching for a warm body, I would aim higher than some dive bar in New York’s most unsavoury neighbourhoods.”

 _Okay, so not just a cheating pig, but an elitist cheating pig, then_ , Tony thinks, disgusted.

But even with his anger, his hurt is the thing that overwhelms.

Had he misunderstood the concept of fidelity in this relationship? Had he assumed it was there just because he wanted it? Had all three done this, at some point or another, made a fool of him because they could?

God, had they ever loved him? Even just a little bit?

Perhaps not.

Steve laughs. “It’s not a frequent thing. Whenever we’ve got an itch to scratch and you’re not around, we make a trip down to the bar and find someone desperate enough to let us fuck them in an alley, or a car, or a bathroom. Wherever we want.” 

His words cut right through him, thin little darts of cruel dejection, and the shame is hot and fierce, like salt water in raw wounds. He feels small and hollow and half-dead, and it shouldn’t hurt the way it does, what with all the people who’ve knifed him in his lifetime, but call it lunacy, but he thought they were different; he thought they were better.

Clearly, he was wrong, and this is just another knife he has to suffer through.

His mother always said suffering is braver than dying.

Maybe he’ll make her proud now.

He doesn’t honour their words with a reply of his own; there’s a greedy, sharp glint in their eyes, all threat and bite, one that he doesn’t like, one that makes him want to call for his armour, like they want him to react, they want him to fight back, so they can put him down like a sick dog, once and for all.

But they don’t deserve that from him; they don’t get his weakness.

He lifts his chin, almost defiantly, and slinks out of the room, all pride and wrath.

He won’t lose his pride, not even for them, not even when they’ve ruined him so easily.

They don’t get to take any more from him.

* * *

The third and final hiccup comes one morning, a few weeks after Steve and Bucky and T’Challa returned from the mission that somehow changed everything. He’s still sleeping, not so peacefully, when he hears the shrill ring of his phone echoing through the empty room and jars awake with a wince, his head pounding. He scrambles for the bedside table, finding his vibrating phone and answering it.

“Hullo?” he slurs, sinking back against his fluffy pillow.

“Tony?”

Shuri’s voice comes out as a thin sob and Tony lurches up in his bed.

“Shuri?” Tony says, carefully.

“Tony, something is wrong,” she says, thickly.

Tony rubs his hands over his eyes, running them through his sweat-damp hair. “What’s wrong, Shuri? What’s going on? Are you okay?” His heart clenches. “Are you hurt, Shuri? Did someone hurt you?” He topples off the bed and onto bare feet.

“No, no,” Shuri says, roughly, and he can tell she’s desperately trying to get herself under control (she and his lover’s – or he supposes, ex-lover’s, now – little sister are so very similar; they both refuse to allow weakness; he doesn’t know if he should be proud or indignant that she’s forced to protect herself so viciously in this world). “It’s T’Challa.”

Tony grimaces out of habit and rubs his aching sternum. “What did he do?” he asks, grimly.

“He just…” Shuri’s voice shakes. “He just came into my lab and he said all these awful things, about Baba and about how he is tired of taking care of me and how I am such a burden on him. He says, he says that I should find a man willing to take me, so I can stop clinging to him. T’Challa would _never_ say such things to me, Tony. What is happening? What is wrong with him?”

Tony drags a hand over his face. _Jesus Christ._ “I don’t know, Shuri. I don’t know,” he mutters. “He… he hasn’t been the same since they got back from that mission a couple of weeks ago. None of them have been. It’s like… I don’t fucking know anymore,” he finishes, wearily.

“Something is wrong, Tony,” Shuri insists.

“Yeah, I know, but I just don’t know what to do.” He tips his head back. “I’ll talk to him,” he declares.

Shuri chuckles, humourlessly. “And you think that will work?”

“You got any better ideas, Princess?”

“I just…” He hears Shuri grit her teeth on the other line. “I want my brother back, Tony.”

“Yeah,” Tony directs a soft, sad look at the ceiling of his room. “I know the feeling.”

* * *

“The fuck is going on with you three?” Tony demands, in an ugly tone, as he storms into the common room.

His three lovers are lounging on the sofa, having a lovely chat amongst themselves, which, of course, promptly dies upon Tony’s entrance into the room.

Steve cocks a brow. “Anything in particular, doll, or are you just having one of your trademark temper tantrums?” he taunts.

Tony’s face contorts with disgust. “Fuck you, Milk Dud,” he snaps. “And answer the goddamn question.”

Bucky narrows his eyes and leans forward, propping his elbows on his thighs. “Maybe we’ve just realised a few things, been enlightened,” he drawls, slowly.

Tony crosses his arms over his chest. “Care to enlighten some other people, or is this a secret treehouse club that I’m not invited to?”

The three exchange a look that has Tony’s hackles rising.

“You three have been acting like fucking douchebags since you got back from that mission. You’ve been agro and rude and fucking twisted and frankly, I’m over it. So, you’re going to explain your ridiculous mood or I might just get violent, because I just got off the phone with a sixteen-year-old girl who was close to _tears_ because her big brother just treated her like she was a waste of space and I’m ready to beat the shit out of someone. Hopefully, it isn’t any of you.”

“Aw,” Steve mocks. “Is Tony feeling a little hurt that we’re not waiting on him hand and foot?”

Tony reels back (he always thought it was strange, the way that Steve and Bucky and T’Challa treated him so well – to think they resented it, to think they sneered at him for it, to think they thought less of him because of it, well, the ache that comes alongside that realisation is nothing small).

“I _never_ asked any of you to wait on me hand and foot, nor did you do that, you self-righteous prick. And they call me a narcissist,” he scoffs, shaking his head.

“You are,” Bucky says, bluntly, without a hint of doubt to his words, like it’s an absolute fact of the universe that he believes. “You are a narcissist.”

Wow, that particular knife angles into his ribs perfectly.

Bucky laughs, it’s a short, rough sound that should make Tony’s insides twist; today, it just hurts.

“Come on, Tony, don’t tell me you were foolin’ yourself to think differently. You’re the most selfish, vain person I think I’ve ever met.” He shakes his head. “And I’ve known fuckin’ Nazis.”

Tony grits his teeth. “So, then, why are you with me, if you consider me such an objectionable person to society?” he demands in an ugly tone.

Bucky shrugs. “You’re a good fuck,” he says, plainly. “And you’re rich. You make us cool things. Yeah, I can’t imagine why anyone else would stay with you, honestly.” He looks at Steve and T’Challa. “You guys got anythin’ to add?”

Tony can’t help the full-body flinch that comes at his words.

They even seem to delight in it, how much their words hurt him, and that just makes him sicker.

He lets his shoulders roll, standing up to full height, because this is where he draws his line, this is where he tells them to go fuck themselves and destroys whatever soft part of his heart still remains, so he won’t ever make some dumb-as-fuck decision like this (like _them_ ) ever again.

“I think we’re done here,” he says, coldly. “Get your shit out of my house.”

Steve raises an eyebrow. “What, you too insecure to hear the truth about yourself, Stark?”

Tony shakes his head. “I just don’t have the bandwidth to put up with your shit anymore,” he says, wearily. “Pack up your shit and get the fuck off my property, all of you. I’m done.”

Steve shrugs like it, Tony’s anger, doesn’t mean much. “It was fun while it lasted.”

Tony’s stung, but he hides it well. “Go fuck yourself,” he snaps back.

Bucky, on the other hand, clucks his tongue, sliding to his feet. He touches him gently like he used to, but all it does is make Tony feel cold.

“Come on, Tony, don’t be like that.”

Tony bats away his hand. “Don’t touch me,” he says, coldly.

Bucky’s face contorts, his mouth thinning with cruelty, and his flesh hand locks around Tony’s wrist like a shackle, pulling him close to the point where his shoulder starts to ache.

“I said,” he bites out. “Don’t be like that.” Bucky clucks his tongue. “God, Tony, don’t you ever just do as you’re told?”

Tony’s stomach rolls. “Let me go, Bucky,” he urges, his voice shuddering with desperation. “Let me go. _Let me go_!”

“No,” Bucky says, finally, and it comes down like a hailstorm. “We’re not done with you yet, _dorogaya moya_ ,” he mocks.

Tony is rooted to the spot, while T’Challa slinks his way around him, wrapping an arm that locks around his waist and pulling him close, nose jutting into his thick, dark hair.

“Do you think we would just let you go, like that?” he rumbles, all leonine grace that Tony loved once (it’s all so sour now).

Tony forces himself to remain absolutely still, as one of T’Challa’s hands slides underneath his shirt to palm at a pectoral. Much to his shame, it makes something clench, low in his belly, his cock hardening in his jeans.

“You belong to us, lover,” he croons in Tony’s ear. “We will not let you go so easily.”

 _Oh, God, something is so wrong here_.

Steve grips his chin and Tony reels back, in a vain effort to put some distance between him and this man that he loves, who makes his skin crawl something fierce.

“Poor Tony,” he clucks his tongue. “Always so desperate, always so hungry,” his lip curls. “Throwing a tantrum when he doesn’t get what he wants, because at the end of the day, under all of that genius, billionaire, playboy and philanthropist, you’re just a spoiled little brat looking for some meaning in your shallow, pathetic life.”

The words don’t sting like they once have – Tony’s made himself dull to them now; he’s been wounded enough.

“What happened to you?” he whispers.

Steve makes a noise. “Oh, we’ve always been like this. You’re the one who was unrealistic about what this was. We showed you a little bit of attention, we liked fucking you a little too often, and you thought it was love.” He shakes his head, like Tony’s so pathetic, so stupid.

Maybe he is.

He doesn’t even realise he’s biting down on his lip until the skin splits and his mouth tastes coppery, like pennies, like blood.

Steve’s hand tightens and all the muscles in Tony’s body go taut, so very aware of how easily Steve could snap his neck. He sucks in air through his teeth and waits, blood pounding in his ears.

He wonders if this is the day he dies, if this is how he dies, at the hands of one of the men he loves in this world, while the other two men he loves watch in glee, in satisfaction.

“Get the fuck away from him!”

The shield rings through the air, a hollow metallic song that only vibranium can make, and it cuts through the edge of everything in Tony’s vision, forcing Steve and Bucky and T’Challa to let him go.

Or, whom he thought were Steve and Bucky and T’Challa.

The three that were crowding him round on the newest arrival, and all Tony can do is blink, owlishly, when he sees Steve standing there in the doorway of the common room, beard thick and wild and growing all over his face, his uniform streaked with filth.

“Get the fuck away from him,” the new Steve growls, baring his teeth.

Bucky smiles at the new Steve through his dark, thick lashes, all teeth and threat, and reaches for Tony, despite all of his fight, threading his fingers through his hair and wrenching his head back.

“I don’t think so,” he murmurs. “We’ve grown… quite fond of him, haven’t we, boys?”

“Fucking-”

Tony’s eyes roll upwards, just in time to see another Bucky drop down from the vents above in the ceiling, wrapping thick thighs around the mean Bucky (there’s no other way to describe him, as pitiful and silly as it sounds) and twisting, forcing him to release Tony, just in time to hit the ground with a rough smack.

The new Bucky kicks the man viciously in the head and Tony startles when green blood pools around the mean Bucky.

“What the-”

The mean T’Challa doesn’t quite know to react to what’s going on in front of him, and he’s quickly felled in someone in a vibranium suit and a panther helm, claws cutting a thin, red line across his throat, which gapes and spills out green blood all over the mean T’Challa’s clothing.

Time slows and stretches, and Tony just stares at the sight of three dead lovers on the ground, bleeding out green blood onto his floor, as some strange illusion around them fades and all that’s left is some green monster, scaly with pointed ears, like an elf.

“Oh,” is all he can manage.

T’Challa approaches him, slowly, like he’s a scared animal, the vibranium around his head dissolving into the rest of his suit, his dark eyes cast in concern.

“Tony,” he says, gently, reaching for him.

Tony flinches and pulls back.

T’Challa’s face cracks open in hurt, before he nods, understanding.

“I’m sorry,” Tony blurts out, in a vain effort to rid him of that cruel dejection.

T’Challa’s eyebrows are drawn. “Why on Earth are you sorry, my love?” he asks, confused. “It’s not your fault, what happened here.”

“I didn’t realise-” Tony stumbles, cutting himself off and wrapping his arms around himself. “I should’ve known.”

_They weren’t them. I should’ve known._

God, what sort of person is he, that he didn’t know he was living with fucking green aliens from outer space who were holding his lovers prisoner?

“Tony,” Bucky rasps.

Tony’s eyes dart in his direction.

Bucky gives him a soft, sad look.

“It’s not your fault, Tony. It isn’t,” he insists.

“I should’ve known,” Tony insists.

He leans into the touch when Bucky’s warm, heavy hand curls around the nape of his neck – Bucky ( _no one_ ) had touched him like this in so long; he was understandably touch-starved for real, genuine affection.

“No,” Bucky rumbles. “No, you couldn’t have. Don’t blame yourself.”

 _Easier said than done_ , Tony thinks, dully.

He pulls away from Bucky’s embrace and drags a hand over his face.

“So, Skrulls, huh?” he asks, directing his question to Steve, who lingers in the doorway, his mouth a taut, thin line.

“Yeah,” Steve replies, a hint of a growl to his tone.

“Oh,” Tony says, lamely, unsure of how to hold himself.

Steve surges towards him, like a man on a mission, and he doesn’t know why, it’s silly in truth because it’s _Steve_ , the _real_ Steve, but he’s almost afraid that he’s going to hit and he’s bracing himself for a blow and ultimately surprised when Steve pulls him in for a hug that knocks the air out of his lungs.

Tony tenses, the sound of his heartbeat in his ears, before he relents, wrapping his arms and his legs around Steve, burying himself in the hold. When Tony pulls back, Steve’s face is wild and there are dark circles lining his blue-blue eyes.

“Did they touch you?” Steve demands, his voice dragging like a chain on gravel. “Tony, did they touch you?”

Tony kisses him, then, hard and fierce, not wanting to wrench open the memory of that night with the Skrulls (it already makes his skin crawl, the thought of their hands on him), not wanting Steve or Bucky or T’Challa to linger on the image either (they don’t need that sort of awfulness in their heads, or the guilt that would no doubt ensue).

“It doesn’t matter,” he murmurs against Steve’s mouth, fingers grappling for T’Challa’s, while Bucky grips his shoulder. “It doesn’t matter. _It doesn’t matter_.”

“Tony,” Steve moans, wrecked, like he’s already guessed what happened and he thinks it will cleave him in half.

“No, don’t,” Tony says, firmly, slipping out of his embrace. “I’m going to forget it and so are you. It doesn’t matter, got it?”

Steve looks like he very much wants to argue, like he wants to open up his skin and bones and let Tony crawl inside, just to protect him from the world.

Tony loves him for that alone.

He rubs his hand over his face. “How are you? Are you okay? We should go down to medical, get you three checked out,” he begins to ramble.

“Tony,” T’Challa murmurs, palming his jaw.

Tony stops breathing.

“Tony, it is okay. We are here now,” T’Challa soothes.

Tony nods, a little desperately, a little wildly, like he’s barely holding himself together, and he thinks _yes, I’m going to fall apart any minute now._

T’Challa palms the back of his head. “You are safe now, lover. You have us now.”

Tony swallows hard. “Yeah, yeah, I know.”

 _I am. I am safe now. They won’t let anything happen to me. They love me_ , he reassures himself.

It doesn’t sit as well with him as he would’ve hoped.

He stares down at the monsters on the floor, who had smiled at him and pretended to love him and treated him so terribly, and he’s just empty.

“What do we do with them?” he asks, flatly.

He takes a page out of Bucky’s book and kicks the one closest to him, viciously, lodging a foot in its ribs, if Skrulls even have ribs.

“I let Natasha know,” Steve says, slowly. “She’ll take care of it.”

Tony nods and licks his mouth, dry and raw.

“I want a shower,” he declares, planting his hands on his hips. The confidence, the control, it all returns to him, a little staggered but obvious. “Who’s coming with me?”

The three exchange a look, which Tony immediately hates.

“Good, you’re all coming. Let’s go.”

* * *

Tony sits on the bench in his shower stall, with his legs outstretched, letting the water surge onto his feet, while Steve, Bucky and T’Challa press themselves against the wall, as far away from him as they possibly can stand.

It’s so fucking stupid, Tony thinks, because he’d much rather have their hands on him right now.

“So,” he says, casually. “How was captivity?”

“Boring,” Bucky hums, letting the water sluice the filth from his long, lanky hair. “Not even a fucking Starbucks.”

Tony’s smile is fleeting, but it’s there.

Bucky softens. “I missed your smile, _dorogaya moya_ ,” he murmurs. “It’s what I thought about when I was with them.”

Tony can’t stop the full-body flinch that comes. When he chances a look at Bucky’s face, he’s stricken, his eyes big and glassy.

“Okay,” Bucky agrees, quietly. “I won’t call you that again.”

“I’m sorry,” Tony offers, feeling like such a pathetic little victim that he can’t even stand to hear a term of endearment that a Skrull said once to him. “I’ll, uh, I’ll get over it, I promise.”

“No,” Bucky says, fiercely, padding across the wet floor, and kneels in front of Tony. “Don’t you dare apologise for anything that went on in here, do you understand me? You don’t have to get over anything that you don’t want to. You don’t.”

He sees that hungry, haunted look in Bucky’s eyes and hates that the Skrulls put it back there, made him think that Tony had gone through half of what he’d gone through at HYDRA’s hands. Tony reaches out and smooths a slim hand over Bucky’s head, lingering on the back of his head.

Bucky shudders and drops his head onto Tony’s lap.

Tony dips down. “It’s okay,” he murmurs, in a low, rushed voice. “It’s going to be okay. _We’re_ going to be okay,” he insists. “We’re going to be okay.”

Bucky kisses the gap between Tony’s thighs. “You’re so brave, baby,” he mutters, roughly.

Tony wants to laugh, because he’s not, he’s not: if he had been, he’d have fought the Skrulls and their awful treatment of him a long time ago; but he’s weak and he put up with them.

Tony cups his jaw, forgets the sneer that had been painted on his face for weeks, and kisses him sweetly, thumb dragging over his defined cheekbone. He lets Bucky drag him to his feet, shielding him from the water, warm, heavy palms settling his waist, as Tony rests his chin on Bucky’s shoulder.

Steve steps forward, the water slowly cleaning out the filth that had matted his hair and beard so dark. He rubs over it with his hand, frustrated, and his hands linger in the air, like he wants to touch Tony, to pull him close, but can’t seem to muster the courage to do so. Tony aches, hating that, hating this is what those green bastards have reduced them to.

So, he goes into Steve’s arms of his own accord.

Steve doesn’t embrace him the way that Tony had assumed he would. Instead, he wraps a big, deft hand around the wrist that the Skrull (he refuses to call him Bucky, refuses to insult the man he loves like that) had gripped, the skin already a mottled canvas of blue-purple that was only now starting to throb. The pain flares hot, but Tony’s known enough of physical agony that it’s become second nature to him. Steve lifts it to his mouth, pressing his mouth against where the bruises colour his skin.

“I’m so sorry,” he whispers, thickly.

Tony flinches. “Don’t be,” he says, fiercely. “Don’t you dare apologise for them, and anything they did. It’s not on you. It’s not on you at all.”

“I- _we_ should’ve escaped sooner,” Steve insists. “We should’ve got away. We should’ve come for you quicker. They could’ve-” he breaks off, midway, gritting his teeth and looking away, pain shadowing his eyes. “They-”

Tony knows what he’s thinking about, knows what makes his eyelashes wet, even with the water raining down on them, because it lingers in his head constantly, too, but he refuses to give it, give _them_ , any more of himself than he already has.

“Don’t,” he bites out, dragging Steve in close. “Don’t think about it. Don’t think about them. They don’t matter.”

“They _hurt_ you,” Steve says, gruffly, his voice distorted and thin.

Tony shakes his head, remembers the hands pinning him down, the sharp sting of violence, and words that made bile rise in his throat, and closes his eyes.

He won’t look back. He won’t linger.

He promises.

“I don’t want to think about it,” he declares. “I don’t want _you_ , any of _you_ , to think about it. Understand?”

The three exchange a look over his head, fierce with concern, something that Tony can’t delve into right now, but something loosens in his chest in relief when Steve nods and he can slump against his chest and take a breath that doesn’t hurt his lungs.

“Are you done?” T’Challa rumbles in his ear, and Tony hadn’t even realised he’d appeared at his back.

Tony pulls away from Steve with a toothy and too-edged smile that he flashes at his kingly lover, who stares right through him, peeling back the artifice and revealing the mess he is underneath. Tony swallows hard and looks down at his feet. T’Challa’s fingers tap under his chin, forcing him to meet his kind gaze, and Tony feels that acid rush of self-hatred, hurt and desperation.

“Come, lover,” he soothes. “We should get you into bed.”

“I’m not tired,” Tony says, immediately.

T’Challa’s eyes crinkle with amusement. “If you’d thought we’d allow you to bury yourself in that workshop of yours, I’m afraid things have not changed that much between us, my love.”

Tony pouts, and it’s so like normal, such an accurate representation of what they are to each other, that he’s almost bracing himself for something to go wrong, as it always does. But when time slows and stretches and nothing changes, and T’Challa is still staring down at him, so fierce and so fucking beautiful, his hands start shaking.

T’Challa kisses him like he’s starving and Tony clutches back, fingers clawing deep into the skin over his shoulder blades.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” he blurts out, when he pulls away.

T’Challa cocks a brow. “Whatever for?”

“I shouldn’t…” Fuck, his hands won’t stop shaking. “I shouldn’t…”

 _Be so weak_ , he finishes in his head and knows he can never say that to his lovers.

They won’t ever take it the way it should be taken.

T’Challa stares at him like he knows exactly what he’s thinking, and it hurts like sharp teeth. Tony opens his mouth to say more, to explain himself, but nothing comes out, nothing rolls off his tongue. Finally, T’Challa sighs and grips his shoulder with a grip that should hurt, but all does is make his heart flutter with something sweet and aching.

“Come.”

Tony goes willingly, stepping out of the shower stall, just in time for Bucky to wrap a white, fluffy towel, soft as cotton candy, around him, and Tony leans into it, as the water is sluiced from his skin. He pads into the bedroom once he’s dry, and nothing hurts when he stares at the bed, almost with fear.

“We can go somewhere else, sweetheart,” Steve offers, gently.

Tony shakes his head. “No,” he murmurs, almost surprised. “No, I’m good. Maybe… maybe I won’t be later,” he shrugs (he’s not stupid enough to assume that trauma is consistent). “But for now, I am.”

Steve searches him, like he’s looking for a lie.

Tony understands; if it were him, he’d be sceptical too.

Tony tugs on his hand. “Come on,” he urges. “I’m tired, and I’ll bet you guys are too.”

Steve looks like he wants to argue, but he wisely keeps his _fight me_ personality away from this particular situation, choosing to give into his own weariness, judging by the way he sways on his feet.

Bucky yawns, shamelessly, stretching his hands above his head. “I don’t know about you guys, but I’m ready to crash.”

He winks at Tony, who grins properly and without prejudice for the first time since those bodies crashed to his floor with green blood spilling out, his chest light.

“Come on, baby doll.”

Tony pads over to the bed and throws himself down onto the sheets, uncaring if he lies on damp spots. The bed sinks with their weight and he sighs when they press together, warm and close, their hands everywhere; on his stomach, the inside of his thighs, his hair, his neck.

Tony lets himself be greedy, lets them hold him as much as they want, his lungs squeezing a little too tight.

He won’t look back; he won’t linger; he won’t let this destroy him, destroy _them_ , and when the sun rises again in the morning, _living_ will be braver than dying.


End file.
